..Iāve been in the shadows for a while now, but I think itās time to show a little of myself off. I wonāt lie a bit nervous but here you are my cute donuts!!šš
I want you so obese you donāt know what to do. Youāve gained so much so fast that your body hasnāt had time to adjust. Everything got so difficult so quickly. After a big meal you can barely get up, so you just sit there whining about how bad this is getting. All your clothes are four sizes too small and the waddling is harder than you ever expected it to be. Youāre moving less and less each dayā¦
You keep saying maybe we should slow down, but youāre so hungry all the time. If you arenāt stuffed, youāre basically starving. You know itās getting out of hand, but what else can you do? You have no choice but to keep going, hoping for the weight plateau that will give you a chance to settle. But thatās never going to happen. Iāll make sure of it.
I want to see the way your body struggles desperately to behave in the ways human bodies were designed to because of how incredibly fucking fat you've eaten yourself. Me having to sickly sweet encourage you to do things that should be second nature - "that's it sweetie, oh I know it's so hard, but just a few more steps and you can sit down". Us getting sidelong glances every time we exist in public as you wheeze against me, the spectacle of tiny little me hanging on to your thick arm trying to support you as you shuffle yourself forward.
You finally flopping back down into the couch when we get back, both you and it groaning with the weight. Breathless, red-faced with exertion and embarrassment that this is what it's come to. You're almost in tears. Between gasps for air - "I'm too big, baby, I'm too heavy, it's too much š„ŗ"
I disappear to come back with a near industrial size tub of cream puffs and mini eclairs and shush you gently as I pop one after another into your mouth to soothe you. "It's okay baby. I know. You're so hopelessly obese for me now, aren't you? Oh, you poor sweet pig. It hurts, doesn't it? You just say the word and we stop."
You have a safe word. I remind you of it often. You've never used it. Right now, any words you try and say - although they're really nothing more than a desperate moan for more, are muffled by the thousands of calories of cream and pastry, but even if you could, I know you're not ready to yet. You need this. I saw it in you and I nurtured it and I know you won't stop swallowing and swelling for me, no matter the cost.
Tw: Health issues, fat shaming, nonconsensual gaining
Whatās the matter babe, something wrong with your food? It never takes you this long to polish off a family meal deal. Usually, I canāt even get to the next drive-thru before youāre tilting your head back to choke down the last of the fries. You know I love seeing those pudgy hands pouring the crumbs and salt and grease down that blubber-covered throat of yours. But weāre almost there and youāve barely finished the second burger ā whatās going on?
Ohh, the cashier at the last place really got to you, huh? Yeah, they donāt usually play along like he did when I try to fuck with them. Itās always funny to see how uncomfortable they get when I talk about how big youāre getting, how hard it is for you to get around when youāre fat enough to take up the entire backseat of a car, how all this fast food is the last thing in the world you need but I keep getting it for you anyway. But not him, though. He was ready to give you a lecture about what all these processed foods ā the ones loaded with saturated fats and sugars and sodium ā are doing to your body. Called you a fatass right to your face! From the drive thru window! Man, I wish Iād recorded it; your fans would have loved to see that, you getting redder and redder from blushing, shifting your flab around while he went on about diabetes and heart disease and fat, lazy customers.
Youāve got to admit thereās something to what he was saying, though. I mean, you didnāt used to have to take a break just getting into the car. It hasnāt been easy for you for a while now, but to already be out of breath and panting like a dog by the time youāve barely gotten to the car, sitting on the edge of the backseat with your fat filling up the door frame? Itās obvious youāve gotten a lot heavier and a lot more out of shape, really damn fast. You had to spend a good five minutes with one huge blubber-packed leg and a good foot and a half of belly and side roll hanging out of the car before you were ready to start scooting those hundreds of pounds into the middle of the seat. With all the rocking and jiggling and wobbling you had to do, I wasnāt sure what was going to give out first: you, or the suspension. Iām not looking forward to trying to get your fat ass out when we get back home, not after youāve stuffed ten or fifteen thousand caloriesā worth of greasy junk into your bloated gut.
It has to be obvious to you how youāre steadily ruining yourself. Wrecking your body. Sabotaging any chance you might have left of living a normal life. If you had even a little self-control, you could probably level off your gains here, come up with some kind of a fitness routine that even a fat cow like you could manage, and start getting back down to just being regular fat instead of reality-tv fat. But you canāt resist it, can you? However unsettled someone like that cashier makes you, however much they might make you stop and think about what youāre really doing to yourself, youāre going to have me drive us through our usual date night cycle of fast food, arenāt you? Youāre going to stuff burgers and tacos and fried chicken and ice cream and donuts and chips and candy bars into that blubbery sack of fat in your lap, and wash it all down with sodas and milkshakes and slushies until you look like a tick ready to pop and youāre barely coherent anymore. And then I get to have my real fun.
So you may as well make your peace with all this. Know that youāre not going to be able to make your future anything more than an endless round of trips through the drive-thru until, finally, youāre too porked-up even to get hauled around for that anymore. Until youāre almost unrecognizable as a person under a belly thatās heavier than most people. Until your arms and legs are so heavy with lard and bloated by your indulgence that you can barely lift them without help, let alone use them. Until thereās not a car left anywhere thatās wide enough for you to cram your dump-truck ass into. Until just sitting upright and staying awake is a workout that leaves you out of breath.
Thatās when the food will start coming to you. Iāll miss our little outings like this, but having a date night at home will be a different kind of fun. The endless parade of delivery drivers, showing up every half-hour or so with enough from your favorite fast-food stops to feed a small party. Iāll be there to help you through the food coma, keep you focused and eating, even as you can feel the grease starting to flood your arteries and your breathing slow and your eyelids droop. Giving you all the stimulation you need to keep choking down more garbage and make it that much more impossible for you to do anything on your own again. Isnāt that what dates are supposed to be for anyway? Bringing you closer together as a couple? I donāt know about you, but I think itās romantic.
Because weāre a team, and thereās nothing sexier than knowing Iām feeding you into the fattest version of yourself. Whether you like it or not.
blakekathryn
prguitarman
jacobvanloon
annaxmalina
germansingergirl
theartofmadeline
